She calmed herself, breathing deeply. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Wood, terrified by the wildness of her looks. "Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. “There are no males at men to stare; A man scores always, everywhere.
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